


Waiting for Hope

by QueerlyWorded (Miss_Anonymous)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, F/F, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mystrade if you squint, Post-Reichenbach, Red (Color), Slow Burn, irene needs a hug, no like really slow I promise they get there eventually, no really now she can't always have everything under control
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24824083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Anonymous/pseuds/QueerlyWorded
Summary: Irene Adler knows what it's like to wait. So when she stumbles half-frozen into 221B Baker Street after eighteen months of forced silence and captivity, she knows Molly Hooper has moved on.  But Irene Adler also knows what it's like to hope.  And she wonders if maybe what they had was enough and if, just maybe, Molly is still waiting.Or, Mycroft helps Irene escape from a Russian terrorist cell and she returns to London, John and Sherlock until she can get her shit together and (re)get the girl.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> I should preface this by warning that I have a history of leaving works unfinished. I honestly have no update schedule planned, though this shouldn't be longer than five chapters. Ok, that said: this takes place after Reichenbach. John never proposed to Mary or had Rosie. Irene was aware that Sherlock faked his death and observed the effect it had on John; she went missing a month after his return. She never contacted him after her kidnapping. A video was leaked to Mycroft and shared with Sherlock; the body was believed to be Irene's. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_The thing about waiting,_ Irene Adler thought idly, _is that it is always one-sided. Something anticipated by a single party; usually when the other involved is totally unaware._

She bit back unwelcome comparisons to her own life, focusing on the cracks in the pavement as she walked resolutely towards an address she shouldn’t remember. Or have memorized in the first place. Or really have even written down. But it was rather hard to forget after figuring out which window she needed to access for that evening shower. She remembers scraping her body over the sill, the realization that he used the same brand of conditioner as her. Which, she supposed, would never had happened should she not have written down the address, but it was in the subtitle of John’s relatively popular blog, so she didn’t want to hear it. Even if _it_ was coming from herself. 

The exhaust of a passing bus stung her nostrils and she burrowed deeper into the borrowed coat she had no intentions of returning. It was lost, after all, and she had found it, even if she had never stepped foot in the dusty library before nor had any intentions of returning after she had taken advantage of the facilities and fully operating hand dryer. Irene thinks the casual privilege of weakly blown heat is what she missed most about civilization. She could still feel the cold burning in her chest if she stood still long enough. The coat was red, and too big, although it reminded her of lipstick and safety so she didn’t care. 

She noticed long ago that wearing bright colors made people ignore you, if only to prove they weren’t staring and pondering your questionable life choices. Irene turned left, mentally calculating the remaining distance. She hummed contentedly, estimating five minutes (assuming there’s no calamity, but then again, being that it’s her life, she really had no expectations anymore). Store-fronts blurred as people rushed past each other; she tucked in her elbows and bowed her head as she pushed forward, swallowing down a cough. God, she’s missed London and casual politeness. Irene is looking forward to their reactions when she comes strolling through their door. 

She wondered if Sherlock is still waiting for John to catch on. Honestly, he’s even called her John when he’s lost in thought. For the man who supposedly comprises the entirety of Sherlock’s understanding of humanity, John is remarkably thick when it comes to his feelings. Irene snorted as she remembered John’s face the first time they met, his stuttered requests that she _put something on. Yes,_ she wanted to say, _how about a show? A completely oblivious ex-soldier with severe internalized homophobia meets a man who claims to loathe relationships and ignores all evidence to the contrary. Sound familiar?_ Well, she supposed there was plenty of time for that now.

Now, there was time for anything. Anybody, really. Though she would be naïve not to acknowledge how very different the passage of time might have made things. After all, time is rarely kind to those who wait. _Everybody’s moved on. Lord, even John's probably got a job now. There's no way she_ \- Irene shook her head, pulling up short. The Speedy’s sign was clearly visible. She felt the first threads of trepidation pull across her stomach. Or maybe just hunger. She has forgotten how to differentiate between feelings. It stopped mattering. In Russia, _feelings_ were a one-way ticket to pain.

Irene sucked in a deep breath and crossed the street, trying not to think. _It was hunger. Definitely hunger._ Irene shuttered and gripped the twisting rail, swaying slightly. Maybe she would rest. Just relax for a minute or so before all of the inevitable explaining she knew was coming. She sat down heavily and looked up. _This is the precise opposite of a triumphant return,_ she thought, before the swimming residencies were replaced by a mercifully soft blackness.

…

Irene muttered, pressing further into her pallet. She could hear the screaming again, and it was going to kill her. The cold, she could manage. The pain, the hunger – everything that bit at her skin. But the screaming felt like it was clawing her from the inside out. She needed it to stop, just for one night, just stop … Irene’s eyes snapped open. The damp steps had soaked through her ripped stockings. Her neck was cricked uncomfortably and she jerked stiffly forward, registering Sherlock’s landlady – Mrs. Humphrey? Heller?. The woman opened her mouth to scream again and Irene grabbed at the railing, pulling herself upwards.

“No, please, I’m – a friend,” she slurred weakly, slumping against the banister. “Sherlock – of Sherlock’s.” Mrs. _Hudson_ , Irene remembered giddily, Mrs. Hudson was eyeing her curiously. She was holding some sort of pan and her hair stuck up a bit on one side. She looked thoroughly rattled.

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as though the thought had come from her own head instead of Irene’s lips. “Well, dear, they should be in. They carried in the shopping not too long ago, I’m sure they won’t mind if you go up.”

“Yes – I – would like that,” Irene trailed off faintly, sucking in a deep breath. She pushed off the railing, intent on holding up her body. It was as though her limbs had realized they were no longer absolutely necessary and decided to feel everything Irene had suppressed over the past months. She stumbled head-log into Mrs. Hudson, who promptly dropped the pan. The clatter echoed down the street. Irene was surprised John wasn’t already hanging out of the window.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson pulled one of Irene’s arms over her neck with surprising agility. “You are in bad shape, aren’t you?” She tutted. “Not to worry, I’m sure Sherlock’s seen worse. After all, you’re _alive_ now, aren’t you?” She giggled weakly, shuffling them up a step. 

Irene hummed under breath, mentally willing her legs to move. Mrs. Hudson turned to look at her.

“Oh, I’m sorry, that was a bit morbid, wasn’t it? I really do need to spend less time listening to Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson bent her head conspiratorially, dragging them forward. “He just gets so _happy_ it’s hard to remember what he’s excited about. Really, it’s just perfectly awful.” She shakes her head, as though attempting to figure out where she went wrong.

Irene stumbled over the threshold and Mrs. Hudson all but pushed her onto the staircase, panting heavily.

“Now, then, dear, I’ll just call Sherlock to help,” she started absentmindedly up the stairs. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Irene.” The firmness of her own voice surprised Irene and she licked her lips carefully.

“Right then. _Boys!_ ” Irene heard generic clattering overhead. 

“ _Boys!_ You have a visitor, a friend? Irene?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice grew softer as she moved away and Irene relaxed into the staircase, trying not to remember the state of her appearance. 

She tuned out the frantic conversation trickling down the stairwell and allowed herself to think briefly. Sherlock and John knew her well. They should be able to tell her where she is. They _had_ to tell her where she is. And then…Irene groaned mentally. Hope was dangerous. Hope made you do things you didn’t want to, like stay alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Surprise! I haven't abandoned this one yet! Quick warning - alluded violence/torture/assault. Feel free to let me know about mistakes/give constructive criticism. I apologize in advance for my bastardization of Russian - I fully admit to using Google Translate. I suppose it'll provide some comedy to our lovely polyglot peeps. Enjoy!

“Ms. Adler.” Sherlock’s emotionless drawl interrupted Irene’s internal musings and she turned her head, taking him in. His suit was immaculate, as always, though he was missing a jacket. The deep red shirt was the color of dried blood – she swallowed bile and dimly registered that Sherlock was watching her inventory. He looked well enough. Even seemed happy. Maybe John had come through after all. Sherlock sat next to her as John thundered around the corner, stopping short. 

“It’s – her. The Woman. I mean, it’s actually, really you, you’re –“

“-Alive. How very insightful, John. Truly the pinnacle of observation.”

“Oh, shut up, Sherlock,” John bit out, slightly winded. “You people do know it’s not _normal_ to fake your own death, correct? Most people don’t just go around throwing themselves off buildings onto bloody mattresses or pretending they were captured-“

“That wasn’t faked.” Sherlock cut in, eyeing Irene. 

“What do you mean, that _wasn’t faked_? You’re sitting right-" 

“What I mean, John, is that Ms. Adler was indeed captured.” 

John’s mouth snapped shut abashedly and he straightened. 

“By a – was it a Russian cell, Ms. Adler? Yes, judging by the lingering but admittedly faint odor of a cream-flavored _Goret' Sladko_ , which could have been imported, but then again I highly doubt you would have shown up here in ripped stockings and a borrowed – or is that _stolen_ – coat several sizes too large (a women of lesser tastes than yourself would have perhaps purchased oversize, seeking _comfort_ , but you were never one to balk at lack of comfort) – if you were in the market for importing top-brand cigars.”

Irene slumped against the railing, shivering almost imperceptibly. It was better, this way, where he already seemed to know everything and she didn’t have to talk. She wondered at the irony of that statement, trying to reconcile the idea of past Irene and her current desire for silence. She had always encouraged vocalization in her clients – it made it easier to learn the new and relearn the old, and there was something intriguing to high-level officials in being allowed to say whatever they wanted. She blinked.

“-get her inside,” John was saying. He had descended the stairs at some point and was kneeling at eye-level, apparently checking her over for something. Sherlock watched, emotionless, though she was sure he had seen her zone out. 

“-don’t like the color of her face and she’s freezing, hasn’t stopped-“

“I’m sitting right here,” Irene rasped. She straightened and cleared her throat, meeting John’s gaze. She should ask about her now. What she’s been doing, who she’s with, where she’s working (not that Irene could ever see her leaving St. Bart’s, but people do change).

“Is there any chance I could maybe – have something to eat?” Irene’s lips opened of their own accord and she squirmed with the embarrassment of involuntary self-preservation. John’s eyes widened.

“Oh! Yes, yes, of course, of – course you’d be hungry, looki-“ he stopped short, blushing. “Yes, well, you know what I meant, I’ll just go and – get some tea and toast, it’s probably still-“

“In the toaster.” Sherlock finished boredly. “Because I assumed you’d shut it off, but you’ve obviously forgotten – hence the increasingly noticeable smell of smoke.”

John jumped comically high, nearly tripping as he pushed back past Irene and up the stairs.

 _“Jesus_ , Sherlock, and you didn’t think to mention – no, of course you didn’t.” His mutterings were cut off by the _beep! beep! fire!_ of a smoke detector in an automated distinctly American accent.

“Great! Just great!” John’s exclamations echoed down the stairwell.

“Why-,” Irene began.

“Because Mycroft – or maybe it was Mrs. Hudson – assumed that I’d think it was John attempting to get my attention if it sounded remotely British and subsequently ignore it,” Sherlock answered crisply, looking down at her. 

Irene didn’t reply. 

“Did he – get it together?” she asked, watching the thickened air swirl calmingly in the sunlight. Or maybe it was dust. Either way, she thought, it was pretty. She glanced up. Sherlock looked unsettled for the first time – before, she would have said insecure, but she didn’t know people anymore well enough to trust herself.

“Who?” Sherlock asked blankly.

“Oh, come on. And you say you hate stupid questions-,”

“I’m merely trying to discern what set off your obviously developed defense mechanism which resulted in a sudden change of events and discussion of my personal life.”

Irene laughed. “You do realize everything you just said can be applied to you?”

“No, it can’t. I don’t _have_ a defense mechanism. That would imply I have something to defend.”

“Oh, but you do now, don’t you?” Irene was enjoying herself for the first time since before. “And sit down, I feel like you’re lording over me.”

“Yes, I forgot how you play,” Sherlock muttered, but he sat, looking surprised at himself. 

“Sherlock.” Irene waited until he met her gaze. “I’m glad you have something to defend.”

He cleared his throat, standing sharply and clapping his hands. 

“Yes, well. John should be finished with tea by now.” 

Irene smiled as he disappeared stiffly, leaving her at the bottom. She took a deep breath and palmed the railing, hauling her body erect. She swayed slightly and fought to even her breathing, stretching her other arm out towards the wall. 

The stairs weren’t that bad. She was able to make it nearly half a flight before she had to stop and rest, but it gave her time to think without Sherlock watching her face and John’s alternating concern and pity. Irene didn’t want pity. She was here, wasn’t she, climbing stairs, alive in a red coat _she_ had managed to obtain for herself, in a building _she_ had remembered, minutes away from food _she_ was clever (and desperate) enough to get. Really, she thought, the only person who should be pitied was – Molly. Irene breathed against the wall, focusing on her footsteps.

…

In Russia, she thought about Molly at the beginning. If she was honest, that’s _all_ she thought about – what Molly would say, the sound of her laugh, what colors were closest to things she wore. Irene entertained herself by mentally organizing Molly’s closet, carefully dressing her each day until she was real enough to smell in the stale air. The darkness complied with Irene’s charade, willingly bending into Molly-sized shapes and echoing the pressure of her body, curled against Irene at night. The small gusts of wind that blew beneath the cracks in her stall pressed kisses into her forehead, nose, eyes until she was shaking with the need to hold something other than air.

Molly was killing her.

And so Irene stuffed the thin blanket into the crack and curled up against the opposite wall and murdered her. It was a clear-cut case of self-defense.

The wind was only wind. The heat she lived for at night was the freezing of her skin against a hay-sprinkled floor, not a second body molded around her own. The only color that mattered was red. The bright, fresh red of pain; the dull, throbbing red of past displeasure; the pale, weak red of mixed bile that echoed a damage they all tried to ignore but that came back and claimed a body from the inside out. Irene wasn’t about to die at her own hands, an living in her head was too damn dangerous.

In the beginning, she chewed syllables like a dessert, rolling L’s around her mouth to taste the flavor of home and remind herself that it existed, she existed, they existed. She wrapped herself in letters, them bouncing around her head when she stopped doing anything out loud, even under breath. 

Killing Molly was like ripping stitches out of a partially healed wound. As Irene pressed her face into the icy cement – cold, always cold – her body ached with months-old pain. Her back shredded, howling under phantom leather. She heard snapping and cracking and bit her lip clear to blood, a cacophony of remembrance forcing itself into her conscience. And then it was over, and it settled in her, and she turned onto her throbbing breast and pressed her legs together and tried to forget what it felt like to have warm thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say - not sure when you guys' local elections are, but please vote :) I know it can suck sometimes - where I live, we waited 3+ hours because poll sites were consolidated and everything broke down (urg) - but the only way we can truly make change is to elect lawmakers who share our sense of the future. Ok, rant over. Love y'all!
> 
> *I also don't know why my end note from the first chapter is showing up here, but it's old lol - virtual Pride was the 18th to 28th of June :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I really am sorry these are so random - but hey, two chapters in two days :) Warning - I shamelessly switch between American and British English for a hodge-podge of laziness. I really didn't Brit-pick my spelling at all, so apologies in advance. Alluded sexual assault, nothing explicitly described.
> 
> Enjoy!

“I still _cannot_ believe you made her walk up the stairs by herself.” John scowled at Sherlock’s back, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.

Irene curled her legs underneath the wooden chair John had hastily cleaned off and tried not to inhale her soup. She had attempted to remember how to properly hold the spoon and napkin etiquette and what people did with their elbows, too, before giving it up as a lost cause; she supposed only so much mattered when three distinctly unique eyes were occupying petri dishes less than two feet away. 

“Yes, well, she made it, didn’t she?” Sherlock muttered absent-mindedly, pouring a lurid turquoise solution over the green-pupiled specimen. He dipped his bare pinky in the now clear liquid and lifted it to his tongue. “At least I’m not _hovering_ like Mummy.”

John startled indigently. 

“I am not _hovering_!”

“Yes, really. Well, that’s news both to myself and Ms. Adler, to whom, since arriving, you have offered two blankets, four coups of tea, tissues, and an unnecessary fork, besides the avid rapture with which you are still staring at her and the fact that you have adjusted your sweater three times, so you are clearly itching to examine her for bodily harm.”

Irene hummed non-committedly. 

“I didn’t realize you were keeping such close account of Mr. Watson’s actions.”

Sherlock froze mid-swirl. John reached over and plucked the dish out of Sherlock’s hand.

“And how many bloody times? _No science experiments on the dinner table!_ ” 

Sherlock grabbed weakly at his arm. 

“No that’s – at a delicate stage-“ 

“Well, it’ll have to ferment delicately on the counter,” John tossed over his shoulder, moving resolutely towards the refrigerator.

Irene suppressed a grin, clinking her spoon against the side of the bowl. Sherlock eyed her suspiciously.

“And if John _had_ examined you, Ms. Adler, he would have found a delightfully creative repertoire that focused on your back and legs, slight head damage and numerous injuries to the…lower body.”

John stopped abruptly, fridge open, as Irene’s spoon clattered to the floor, splattering tomato over the wooden table leg. She pressed her thighs together as his words washed over her. _To the…lower body._ He had paused, almost as though he could see…like he knew. _To the lower body._ No. It was her. She was imagining his hesitation – even Sherlock Holmes had to breathe sometimes. It wasn’t deliberate, couldn’t be deliberate – he wasn’t even a doctor. She blinked.

“S-sorry, I’ll just-“

“No worries, we have plenty of spoons.” John smiled at her weakly, hands eye-less, with something like pity. Irene didn’t want pity. People who cared asked questions and pushed for answers. She was supposed to be safe, here – Sherlock never cared. She cleared her throat.

“I really am sorry, I seem to have forgotten how to use silverware over my absence.” She pushed her chair back gracefully and stooped down, ignoring the way the room swam in front of her eyes. Right. Sherlock had said mild head injury. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll – get that, we can take care of that.” John was by her side, reaching out for her and she didn’t think, couldn’t think, just jerked away. His eyebrows jumped up and he lurched back.

“Sorry, so sorry, I – didn’t think. Are – are you-“

“It’s nothing,” Irene bit out, fighting to control her breathing. Sherlock stared accusingly. “No, really, I’m fine,” she insisted, standing quickly and grabbing the table.

John moved to help her before thinking better, glancing hastily at Sherlock. 

“Why don’t you – take a rest? We have a guest room just – you know what, why don’t you just use our room? That way you don’t have to climb the stairs. I changed the sheets this morning so everything’s clean.”

Irene smiled bitterly at Sherlock, who had suddenly become interested in the fake window plant. 

“Oh – if you’re- sure. I really don’t want to bother-,” she protested.

“It’s no-,” John began before Sherlock interrupted.

“If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have come here. Go to sleep before you pass out and John makes me carry you somewhere.”

Irene laughed halfheartedly.

“All right then.”

“Ok.” John clapped his hands together. “It’s just – down the hall. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

 _I know where it is_ , Irene thought, moving towards the door. _Our room,_ he had said. So they were, then. Irene opened the bedroom door, fighting bitterly to suppress the next inevitable thought and failing. _If they are, why couldn’t we?_

…  


They were subtle. Almost too subtle to detect unless you knew what you were looking for. And so Irene noticed the way Sherlock inched his leg over until it brushed against John’s, the way he wouldn’t relax, not fully, into his chair unless John was sitting across from him and the way he positioned himself to watch into the kitchen. John hadn’t changed much; only his eyes held a new tightness whenever Sherlock rushed dramatically out of the flat and John hesitated minutely on the threshold, fingering his pocket as though checking for a gun before scrambling after him, hollering all the way downstairs. 

Irene found herself anticipating lighter, quicker footsteps; mentally filling laughter in odd places because that’s where she would have; creaking open the draw set in the guest room John and Sherlock had generously offered the day after she’d arrived for the foreseeable future and expecting an article of yellow clothing to be mixed into the dull collection of old shirts and unambiguous trousers they had found in storage from what John called his ‘glory days’. Apparently, being a stone and a half slimmer was considered glorious. Even so, they hung limply on Irene like a windless flag on a pole, emphasizing everything she’d lost in Russia.

They hadn’t tried to touch her since the day that she’d arrived. Hadn’t mentioned a doctor, either, though Irene knew it was only a matter of time; John was too familiar with the signs of trauma to ignore her symptoms and she wasn’t stupid enough to think that they would go away on their own. She knew she couldn’t go back to being a dominatrix; nobody was ever touching her again, unless that somebody happened to be Molly Hooper. She had learned the hard way that ownership of oneself was a luxury, and she didn’t intend to ever give that away, regardless of the money. Though she wasn’t blind enough to ignore the fact that she needed it.

Irene was keeping a physical tab on a little snowman notepad she had nicked off the front table. She tracked all of her expenses in blue ink at night, tucking it in the box of tampons John had picked up on the second day after she had woken up in a pool of her own blood. Irene thought she should be used to it, but she had sat on the edge of the guest bed, trying to force her body to move for nearly five minutes before it complied. Willfully given blood was another thing she had apparently forgotten, and the smell was enough to make her gag. She had worn five layers that day, trying to suppress the cold she felt swallowing her skin. _Sheets_ were the first thing she scratched down, though John had assured her she had nothing to worry about.

It had already been a week, and Irene still hadn’t asked about Molly. Sometimes she wondered if Sherlock knew, the way that he looked at her. Not that she’d had Molly, but that she’d had someone. Then again, Irene didn’t think Sherlock spent much time thinking about love at all; she was pretty sure he would find emotional obviousness and insignificance a dreadful bore. The problem, Irene thought, was that she was still hoping. Not necessarily that Molly was waiting, but just single – after all, eighteen months wasn’t that long. _Says the woman who dated her for only 10._

The problem, Irene knew, was that Molly would be just fine if they didn’t work out, if she didn’t want Irene back. There would be other women – and men – all clambering for her laugh and dark humor, waiting for random descriptions of what body parts she had weighed and whom was suspiciously murdered with a full bladder. Others who would meet her family and learn the names of her favorite bars and restaurants, learn to salt her fish and chips because somehow what was put on was never enough. Others who would learn her, the way she always woke up at six for an hour but then came back to bed for another two on the weekends, the way her mouth twitched when she was lying, the soft press of her mouth. Molly would be just fine, no matter what happened. But Irene wouldn’t.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody!!
> 
> I know I said originally that this was going to end up being five chapters but I'm thinking now it might stretch a bit longer. I promise Molly's coming in soon, probably the next chapter :) Hope y'all are staying healthy and safe!!
> 
> I think it needs to be said, despite the fact that this is not an HP fic, that JK Rowling's recent comments were totally out of line. So many of us belong to and love the Potter Fandom, and I truly hope JKR's ignorance and inexcusable bigotry hasn't ruined HP for all of the wonderful trans, nonbinary and nonconforming folks who belong to this community. The HP Fandom is called the Fandom because it belongs to us - the fans - and you are an essential part of the Potterverse. I'm so sorry you've had to read such hatred and deal with invalidation. In particular, to all of the lovely FTM people who read this, you are so valid and beautiful and please keep living your truth.
> 
> Love always,   
> S

Things were going well enough that Irene knew she shouldn’t be surprised by the voice outside her bedroom door that spelled certain calamity (at least, according to Sherlock), and she was rather annoyed with herself for being lulled into any kind of passive security. She wasn’t certain how these things worked, but Irene was relatively sure that ordinary people didn’t march out of torture camps and venture to the address of their choice. Nor, she assumed, were ordinary people permitted to flit about London following an extended internment with full liberty to blab to whomever they happened to stumble upon. It was frightening, really, how well they seemed to have predicted – 

_“SHERLOCK!_ Are you absolutely _certain_ she’s here?” Mycroft’s impatient whine cut underneath the door.

Irene crossed her legs and settled onto the bed. No, she’s not here. _Too arranged._

“I think I’d know where my own guests are. Really, Mycroft, are _you_ in the habit of letting people casually roam about your residence?” 

Sherlock’s annoyed response was followed by a general clanging of pans and John’s sharp _“Watch it!”_. Irene pictured a tea mug being whisked to safety.

Sherlock continued, unbothered. “Maybe she simply doesn’t want to speak to you. I mean, few people do really-”

“What a perfectly _awful_ thing to say!” Irene hadn’t heard Mrs. Hudson come up. “Honestly, sometimes I wonder about your poor mother.”

“Oh, don’t, he had her fooled, anyway-”

“Sherlock-,” John’s amused warning was cut off by a steadily approaching footfall and Irene scanned the room frantically, trying to see from Mycroft’s perspective. The closet was shut, no clothing was thrown on the floor, the bed was made – she was functioning, capable, even admirably sound, everything considered. She took a seat at the desk and opened a paperback to a random page as Mycroft knocked. 

“Ms. Adler? Ms. Adler, I need to speak with you.” His voice was slightly muffled.

“You _ask_ before entering a room now – that’s new. When did you pick that up?” 

Irene bit down a smile. 

Mycroft ignored Sherlock, tapping his foot impatiently.

“It’s a matter of some urgency,” he called through the door, and Irene closed her eyes briefly. Urgency. Yes, everything was urgent – her walking, her talking, what she knew, what Britain knew – it was all important, all urgent, and the sooner she started the quicker it would end.

“It’s open,” she bit out, locking her ankles under the chair as Mycroft opened the door smoothly. She turned her seat to face him before he could approach.

“I won’t insult your intelligence by stating that what occurred after your – _incarceration_ – is unusual,” Mycroft began. “Despite our exceedingly sound intelligence regarding the events of the past few months, I am certain there are many things of which we are not aware. Nevertheless, I do believe that a week is sufficient time, and various unpleasantries must be – _addressed_.”

Irene stared at him numbly. _A week is sufficient time,_ he had said.

“For what?” she whispered.

Mycroft looked down.

“Excuse me?”

Irene cleared her throat, standing to meet his gaze.

“I said, _for what?_ A week is sufficient time for what?” She laughed self-deprecatingly. “I mean, a week certainly isn’t long enough to knit a sweater, or gain a stone. Or, I don’t know, remember that warm water comes through a tap, or that menstruation isn’t a byproduct of internal damage, or that people scream when they’re surprised and it doesn’t mean anything. Nobody’s standing over them, making them scream, no people just _scream_ because they can and they _want_ to.”

She took in a wild breath, clenching her hands together. So much for appearing normal.

Mycroft glanced away, uncomfortable, though Irene wasn’t sure whether it was because she said _menstruation_ or because the book she had picked up appeared to be an illustrated and highly informative volume dedicated to responsible and safe homosexual relations.

Mycroft coughed. 

“Yes, I understand, but we simply _cannot_ wai-“

“You don’t understand,” Irene interrupted. “But thank you for letting me come here instead of wherever else you put people after-,” she stopped. “After.”

“Yes, well, you’re quite welcome. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable?” Mycroft gestured to the bed, absolutely avoiding the book still opened behind Irene.

“No, I’m fine.” She sat again and he shifted.

“Oh, really, it’s just _sex_ ,” she snapped, throwing the offending volume roughly in his direction. “It appears to be quite informative, you should give it a read.”

Mycroft flushed, catching the book deftly without answering. 

“I’m going to need a full transcript of everything that occurred, Ms. Adler. Only myself and five other people will ever have access to the recording-“ Mycroft said, laying the book on the bed and pulling a small tape recorder out of his briefcase, “and I’m sure I do not need to impress the importance of the fact that this needs to remain _classified_.”

Irene rubbed her eyes, trying to process.

“Classified? So, nobody can know anything?”

Mycroft looked uncomfortable for the second time.

“I’m going to provide you with a list of highly recommended mental health professionals trained to ask non-specific questions and focus on relieving trauma. Anything that has to do with what you physically – endured – is perfectly fine. Any information your captors happened to disclose will remain with me.”

Irene nodded wordlessly. She wasn’t going to tell her everything anyway – information meant danger, and Irene would die before ever willingly making Molly a target.

“Before we begin, I do have one question.” Mycroft nodded, gesturing for her to continue as he opened a pad. Irene waited until he met her eyes.

“Am I really that predictable? That your agent, or whoever the hell it was that led the ‘revolt’ the night we all got out, could arrange for us to go to London and you didn’t even bother to keep us once we arrived?”

Mycroft smiled. 

“Oh, we did keep everybody else. Just not you. You we watched, certain you would end up here where my brother could play housemaid until you were ready to talk. People tend to follow the same patterns when they believe themselves _in danger_ , and I distinctly remember you climbing through that window,” he pointed across the room, “the last time you found yourself threatened.”

He brushed at his left sleeve, though Irene couldn’t see anything.

“The coat was very resourceful, by the way. Remarkably similar to something you used to own, I presume? You grabbed it with such familiarity.”

“I hope you’re planning on reading Sherlock and John into the case,” Irene said, ignoring Mycroft’s last comment.

He scowled. 

“The other two people besides myself are the head of M16 and his inferior. Regardless of how much my brother is able to guess, he will receive no confirmation nor ever hear the official record, though I’d be naïve not to believe this to be partially compromised. Nevertheless, they’re downstairs with Mrs. Hudson for the time being. Now we’ve delayed enough, I hope you’re ready to begin.”


End file.
